


That Sudden Flood of Joy

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, Domestic Johnlock, Domesticity, Enthusiastic Consent, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gay John, Healing, M/M, Self Care, Texting, post-Mary, self love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: After John actually marries a woman he doesn't love, he realises he needs to start being more honest about his feelings, and things start to change.





	1. Chapter 1

Hi. 

Are you doing that thing?

Elaborate.  
-SH 

That thing where you ignore me when I’m boring. 

Not ignoring.  
-SH 

You ignored my hi. 

Not ignoring, waiting.  
-SH 

Knew there was more.  
-SH 

Ridiculous to open asynchronous communications with ‘hi.’  
-SH 

Just being friendly.

I see.  
-SH

You could say it back. You can let on you like me when it’s just us, you know. 

Bit of an open secret, that.  
-SH 

Ah, right. Between you, me, and a hundred of my closest friends. 

The barbecuers.  
-SH 

Yeah, them. The awful, dreadful boring people I hate, apparently. 

And you. 

Yes, me. So we had established.  
-SH 

I’m not a barbecuer, though.  
-SH 

Give it time. You’ve probably got a barbecue in you. 

Bite your tongue!  
-SH 

Don’t you mean bite my thumb? I’m texting, not talking.

No, that’s an entirely different idiom.  
-SH 

What day is it?  
-SH 

Thursday. Why?

I mean what is the date?  
-SH 

Won’t your phone tell you? The one in your hand. 

Very droll, John.  
-SH 

Thanks, I try. 

Anyway, the moment you’ve been waiting for. The point. Can I buy dinner tomorrow?

Can you? Aren’t you honeymooning? Or are you somehow planning to do that remotely?  
-SH 

That’s sort of what I wanted to speak to you about, actually. 

Buying me dinner?  
-SH 

No, the honeymoon. 

What’s that got to do with me?  
-SH 

I sort of don’t think we ought to have it out by text. That’s why I want to buy you dinner. 

Will the dinner help?  
-SH 

Might do. Dinner is often helpful. 

You would say that.  
-SH 

How well you know me.

Is Mary coming along?  
-SH 

Nope. Can you come?

Anything for you, o best and wisest.  
-SH 

That was me to you, actually. I’m the bravest and kindest. 

And wisest. Trust me, I’ve memorised that bit.  
-SH 

Well, I’ll have a think about some more adjectives for you.

Flattering. When and where?  
-SH 

For dinner? I’ll come and collect you. Round dinnertime. 

See you tomorrow, then.  
-SH 

Can’t wait. 

 

…

 

John turns up at the crack of dinnertime, as promised. He lets himself into the flat and takes his chair, watching fondly as I stump about the place asymmetrically, searching for my left shoe. 

“Try under the desk,” John suggests, chinning his hand (why’s he smiling like that?)(obviously, I look ridiculous, squatting to peer under things)(doesn’t look like a pisstake sort of smile)(he isn’t really like that with me anyway, not really). 

“Oh,” pop up from trying to feel around under the sofa. “Good thinking.” 

John grins and taps the side of his head, “Not just a hat rack.” 

“Hopefully never a hat rack,” Pull out the missing shoe and hold it up triumphantly. “Hats are bad.”

John rolls his eyes, “Not all hats are that hat.”

“Hats are bad,” firmly. 

John raises a shrewd eyebrow, “Like top hats?”

Clear my throat and look away, “Hats.” Sit down in my desk chair and stoop to put my shoe on.

“Hang on,” John steps forward. “Are you going to put it on like that?” Look down at the shoe, then back up at John quizzically. He shakes his head, “It’s all dusty and squashed. The other one doesn’t look so good either, actually. Go ahead and put it on. I’ll just do them for you.” John shrugs off his jacket and begins to turn up his shirt sleeves. 

“Er. What?”

“Your shoes. You can’t go around like that. People will think you’ve no one to look after you.” Without waiting for an answer, John steps past me into the kitchen and up the stairs to his old bedroom. Pull my shoe on and John returns a few moments later with his shoe polish kit tucked under one arm. He drops to one knee next to me, opens the box, and removes a brush, a rag, and a pot of black shoe polish. “Sit,” John replaces the top of the box and taps the footrest on the lid of the box, “Put your foot here.” 

I obey, “I can’t believe you’re such a fiend for polished shoes that you keep a shoe polish kit in someone else’s flat.” 

John begins to brush my shoe vigorously, “You’ll thank me later. Does that tickle?”

There’s a sliver of neck visible between John’s hairline and his collar. Still pale (not been on holiday, then)(should’ve answered by now)(bugger). Clear my throat, “No. Feels good. Fine. Thanks.” 

Something different about John. Something off (lost for a moment gazing at the whorl on the back of his head)(that’s definitely not it). “Have you changed your hair?”

John raises his head, smiling crookedly, “A bit. Do you like it?”

“I do, yes.” John gives me a little tap and goes back to polishing. Sit back in my desk chair, pondering the top of John’s head (it is as admirable as the rest of him). 

Presently John straightens up, “There you are.” He pats my knee as he passes it getting to his feet. 

Look down at my shoes. “Wow, I really can see my face in these.”

John laughs as he pulls on his jacket, “You say that every time.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, it’s cute.” John lifts my coat off the peg by the door and holds it out, “Ready?”

I step forward and let him help me into it, “Ready.” 

…

 

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” John has booked us a table at Angelo’s, and he smiles at me across our wine glasses, his gentle expression made softer still by the candlelight. 

I sip, “Of course I do. I remember everything.”

John laughs, “Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

John cocks a skeptical eyebrow, “When is my birthday?”

“31 March.”

John nods concession, “Well that’s an easy one. Hmm. What colour shoes have I got on?”

“Brown,” shift a little in my chair. “Brown suede chukka boots. Your, er going out shoes. You wear them because they match your jacket, which you wear when you're feeling amorous. Or. Sentimental. You're rather ritualistic about your clothing, not sure if you've noticed. Also they--the shoes I mean--make you nearly a full inch taller, which you like on dates, because sometimes your date’s heels make you look short. A moot point in my company, of course since even with them on, you’re still about eight inches shorter than I am. Not that. I mind. You’re the one who makes people think I’m taller than I really am. Short friend. You're a good counterpoint to me; you emphasise my extremes.” Cough and sip my wine again, “That was a bit more deduction than I was expecting. Happens sometimes. You know how it is.” 

John grins, “It’s all right. I sort of love it when you do that. But that doesn’t prove that you remember everything.” 

“I do, though. I’m a genius.” 

“Yes, you’re very clever,” John says fondly. His face grows rather serious under his smile, “Erm, Sherlock. I wanted a word.”

Nod, “Right, you did say.” 

John sips his wine, “So. I suppose you've worked it out already from. I don’t know my nail beds or my trouser knees or the way I part my hair but.” He pauses, looking into his wineglass as if his wine could tell him his future, “Mary and I have split up.” John’s ring. That’s what’s missing (not missing exactly but certainly not present either). 

I wait until John looks up at me to answer, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, actually!” John looks rather sheepish. “It’s really really going to be for the best. That was. I don’t know how I let it get so far. That was a bit not good.”

That’s puzzling; can’t think what he means by that. “What happened?”

He shrugs and takes another sip of his wine, “Nothing happened. Well. Not nothing.” John meets my eye, “I don’t. Love her.” He sighs through his nose, “Gratitude is. I mean, It’s good. But it isn’t enough, you know?”

Frown, “Er. Yes?”

John smiles wryly, “Thanks for humouring me, anyway. Well. We got back to the room after you'd. After we left the reception, and I just knew I couldn’t do it. I was literally sick over it, and you know I’m not a nervy sort of person. I got it out, though. I told her. And ha,” he shakes his head. “Her exact words were ‘oh thank god you’ve noticed; I thought Sherlock would tell you.’” John scowls, “Why do people let me make an idiot of myself? She could have told me herself, if she. Well anyhow. We’re having it annulled. As it turns out, you were right about the baby and er.” John drops his eyes and his face darkens momentarily. “Wrong about me being a dad. Mary’s in Majorca with that David bloke.”

Sit back, eyebrows raised, “God!”

John looks rather satisfied, “I know.”

“She took him on your honeymoon?”

John snorts, “I know. I have more, though.”

“Good thing we decided to stay for pudding. Go on, then.”

“So when I got back to London, I went and saw Ella. You remember my-”

Nod, “Useless therapist, yes. Did she help this time?”

“Yeah, she did help this time. What do you suppose she told me? Have a guess.”

Ponder actually risking a guess for about one second then shake my head, “Did she tell you that I never guess?”

John rolls his eyes, “Very funny. She told me that I compulsively look after people as a way of avoiding looking after myself. I’m meant to be practicing being selfish.” 

Mull that information for a moment, “Are you asking for a second opinion?”

John laughs, “No, thanks. I’m sorted on the psychoanalysis for the moment. It’s actually going really well.”

“Being selfish?”

“Yeah.”

Cock my head, “I can’t imagine you selfish.”

“I’m getting good at it, if I say so myself. I’ve made a list of things I want, and I’m ticking them off one by one.”

“A new bicycle, a puppy, an autographed photo of William Shatner. What else? I’ll put in a good word with Father Christmas.” 

John laughs and gives my chair a gentle kick under the table, “You know me so well.” 

“Well who among us doesn’t have a weakness for Captain Kirk, John? He’s terribly strapping.” 

John’s expression sort of ripples, “Well yeah.” I glance away (not sure why). We reach for our glasses in unison and drink together. 

“So what’s on the list?” I ask presently. 

John shakes his head, “Ahh, no. Nope, let’s not do that just now.” 

Try not to wheedle, though it comes out as a bit of a wheedle, “One thing? I can help.” 

John hesitates, his face softening, “Not yet.” Under the table, he rests his foot against the leg of my chair, brushes my trousers (makes me shiver, these little dabs of touch)(embarrassing)(don’t think he noticed). “I know you can help. You have helped. But not yet. Soon. Not now.”

“All right then,” raise my glass. “I can live with that. Soon.”

John touches his glass to mine, “Soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry I’m not a proper person. I suppose I ought to be inventing little cheer up John expeditions.  
-SH 

Not a proper person? What’s all this, then?

I want to help, but I’m a bit rubbish, so you’ll have to tell me what to do.  
-SH 

You’re not rubbish. Don’t be stupid. 

Where’s this coming from?

Molly told me I’m bad with sad people and not to be a pod person to you and I ought to be bringing lasagnes and taking you on outings and having fortifying chats about other fish in the sea.  
-SH 

Bringing lasagnes?

Apparently essential.  
-SH 

Well I suppose we must have come out of the same sort of pod, because I think you’re brilliant, and I don’t need lasagne or fortifying chats. 

I’m mainly relieved, to be honest. 

Good.  
-SH 

That offer does not expire, however. Redeemable on demand in perpetuity.  
-SH 

Thanks. 

Likewise. 

Well, if I ever get divorced, I will remember that.  
-SH 

Annulled. 

That sounds worse. Like some sort of surgical procedure.  
-SH 

Nope, just being shot of my lying wife who never wanted to marry me at all. 

Nor did you want to marry her.  
-SH 

Good thing we had it annulled.

Did that sound bitter?

Rather. But excusably so, I think.  
-SH 

I’m really not angry with her at all. I’m not bitter.

Good.  
-SH 

Do you think anyone will believe that?

Who cares?  
-SH 

This is why you’re a good best friend. 

Interesting. Thank you for anticipating that I had begun to collect data on that point.  
-SH 

Have you? What other data have you collected?

It wouldn’t do to bias your mind.  
-SH 

Anyway, in the interest of furthering my exposure to opportunities to evince best friendship for the sake of scientific inquiry, want to come round?  
-SH 

Stuck on a case. Come and help me think.  
-SH 

Be right there. 

…

 

“Shhhh now,” Sherlock’s lips were very near my ear and the warm ticklishness of it had the rather unfortunate effect of provoking the opposite of the response he’d hoped for. I burst into giggles, swallowing them as best I could, then finally turning and snorting into Sherlock’s shoulder to compose myself as Lestrade approached. Sherlock gave me a bracing pat on the back and I took a deep breath and straightened up. 

“Nice work, gents,” Lestrade grinned round at both of us. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock answered with dignified serenity, meanwhile snaking a hand up the back of my jacket and pinching my side, not hard but sharp enough to send me into another fit of giggles. 

“Er, you okay?” Lestrade’s face furrowed as he looked back and forth between Sherlock and I. 

Sherlock tutted and shook his head, “Have some professionalism John, for god’s sake! This is a crime scene.”

“Oi dickhead, you’re the one pinching!” I tried to retaliate, but Sherlock knocked my hand away, finally dissolving into his own giggle fit.

Sherlock cleared his throat but his voice husked a bit anyway, “As you were saying Greg, before my partner lost his head.” 

Greg narrowed his eyes, bemused, “Anything you, er, partners want to tell me?”

“Oh no,” Sherlock said quickly, half glancing at me. “John is only a little giddy with adrenaline.”

“We both are,” I added, resisting the urge to try and pinch Sherlock again. 

Greg grinned, “Right. Well, off you go then; you’re done here.” Sherlock turned away to hail a cab nearly before the words were out of Greg’s mouth. 

“Thanks Greg,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried after Sherlock. “N’night!”

…

John is still smiling and sunny when we arrive at Baker Street. He gets out of the cab ahead of me, and at first I think it’s only to let me out. But when he’s pulled me out, he pays the fare and bounds up the front stairs, his keys in hand. As if he’s never left it. As if he's never left me.

He really is luminous (irresistible to look at, though it makes me ache to do it too long). I follow him in, and John locks the door behind us, then slumps against the wall at the foot of the stairs. 

“Er, Sherlock,” John’s voice stops me before I reach the stairs. 

Turn back to him, “Yes?”

“I’ve got something to tell you.”

“All right.” Try and look inviting. 

John wets his lips and blows out a long breath, “Sherlock. I. I’m.” He laughs softly and shakes his head, then heaves another deep breath, “Sherlock.” John straightens up from the wall and squares his shoulders with a tight little nod of resolution. “I’m. Gay. I’m gay.” 

Dimly aware of my mouth falling open. I sink down to sit on the bottom step, clutching the banister for support. “You?”

John smiles, “You should see your face. Me, yes.”

“You’re gay?”

John beams, “As a daisy.” Open my mouth but nothing comes out. I can only gape at him until he comes and sits down next to me on the step. “I’ve never seen you speechless before. Almost never. I’ll want to remember this.” He bumps my shoulder with his, and even through the four layers of clothing between us, my skin warms under his touch. Try and speak again (‘so am I’ just say it!) Still can’t. John is tickled by my apparent reticence, “In your own time. I’ll wait.” Listen to John’s breath for a few moments, then rise. He rises with me expectantly. 

“Let’s go upstairs.”

“Okay.” John leads again and lets us into the flat with his key. He makes for his chair at once. Drift into the kitchen and rummage in the vegetable crisper for the bottle of champagne, leftover from John’s engagement party (only half a year ago!)(feels like a lifetime). Pour two glasses, tuck the bottle under my arm, and carry it all out to the sitting room. 

“Are you throwing me a coming out party?” John leans forward in his chair, grinning. 

“Does it take more than a drink to make a party?” I take my own chair. 

“This suits me,” John accepts his glass and raises it, “Cheers.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” I lean in as well and tap my glass to John’s. We drink. 

“What does make a party, anyway? Should we play a game?” John flicks a little foam from his lip. 

Bounce an eyebrow at him, “We’ve still got Cluedo kicking about somewhere, I think.” 

“We agreed,” John holds up his right hand as if taking a vow. “Never again!”

“Well, then. Let’s just enjoy the company.”

“Suits me,” John repeats. We fall silent, sipping. The room is staticky, as if we’re waiting for something to crack and sparkle between us any moment. “Do you think I’d be a good dad?” John asks suddenly. 

Look carefully at him. He won’t look at me, keeps his eyes lowered. “Is that something you want?”

John shrugs, “It’s more like.” He sips his champagne and makes a little sigh, “I assumed I’d meet someone who made me want it. But. Well people keep. Leaving me.” He looks up at me (staggeringly blue eyes)(shut up don’t think of that now). 

“Yes. I do think you’d make a good dad.” Think of the stupid joke I made at his wedding (hope he isn’t thinking of it also). 

“You left me,” John says forcefully. He looks away again and grips the arm of his chair, but I can see his fingers tremble anyway. 

Swallow and set aside my glass. Try and recall the words I have prepared for the moment I might be invited to give them. “John. Have you. Have you ever been.” Pause, rub my palms against my knees to wipe away the moisture. “The way it was tonight. Like an adventure. Like a fairy tale. Like we’re. Heroes. It’s only like that with you. It wasn’t.” Lower my voice and continue very quickly, “I didn't leave you to have fun on my own. It wasn’t an adventure. I hated it. I wanted you every day. I. I should have told you.” My voice catches. I swallow hard and clasp my hands, shut my eyes (can’t look at him), “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I thought I was being unselfish for once. I didn’t see how wrong I was until I came back. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry.”

John’s face is softer when I meet his eyes, “Swear you won’t do it again? I. I couldn’t take it. If you left me like that again. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I won’t. Me neither.” Lean forward in my chair and offer my hand, a sort of pact, “I swear it.” 

John looks at my outstretched hand, then back to my face, “Would it be all right if I. Can I have a hug?” 

In answer, I rise from my seat. John stands as well. He reaches for me and pulls me to him. Lays his cheek against mine, strokes the back of my neck. He sighs, and his chest rises against me. I hold myself very still until John releases me. 

“Good then,” John refills our glasses and takes his chair again. “We’re agreed.” He’s not beaming as he was before, but he looks content. 

“Yes,” I sit as well. “Agreed.” 

John and I relax into our chairs and nurse our drinks. Our legs seem to stretch as our champagne dwindles til we’re nearly toe to toe. Look down at our shoes and remember John’s head bobbing at my knee. Wonder if John can see the warmth in my cheeks. 

Presently John breaks in on my thoughts, “Well. It’s getting late.” He stands, “I should-”

“Stay,” I stand as well. “You should stay.”

John smiles, “You reckon?” 

“No point in getting a cab across town to fall into bed, then getting another cab back across town in the morning to collect your car. Stay here tonight. There are clean linens in the cupboard, and I’ll lend you things to sleep in.”

John grins, “Yeah, all right. I’ll do that.” 

…

Every single hygiene product Sherlock owns is made with honey, so I got out of the shower smelling as much like a beehive as Sherlock usually does, and got into the clothes Sherlock had left for me on the towel rack. An ancient blue t shirt that was actually mine, Sherlock’s favourite striped pyjama bottoms, a pair of rugby socks that were also mine, and Sherlock’s second best red tartan dressing gown.

I found Sherlock up in my old bedroom, stuffing a very plump pillow into a pillowcase that was rather too small for it, “Ah, John. You look short in my things.” 

I snorted, “I don’t look taller naked.” 

Sherlock coughed, “Well, I. Wouldn’t know. Are you going to bed?”

“Might as well, I suppose. Anything on tomorrow?”

Sherlock shrugged, “We’ll have a look at the blog after breakfast.”

“All right,” I sat down on my bed. It was covered in a blanket that I recognized from Sherlock’s bed. Well, I recognized it from Sherlock wrapping it about himself when he got chilly hanging around the flat in his pants and a vest. Sherlock tossed me the pillow, and I plumped it and tucked it between my back and the headboard, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock took a rather reluctant step back toward the door. “Well. Good night.”

“Er, Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

I picked at a loose thread on the blanket, “I wanted to ask you something. This is er. On my list, actually.”

Sherlock smiled, “Your happiness list. Go on then.”

“Do you think. Could I. Would it be all right if I. Came back? To live here.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, “You want to come home?”

“Well yeah. If that’s all right.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, “Of course it’s all right, John. Of course it’s all right.”

“I’d sort of like to be moved in before Mary gets back next week. That okay, too?”

Sherlock nodded and nodded, “Tomorrow, if you like.”

“Great!” I grinned, “Good. Thanks. That sorted, then. Phew.”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” Sherlock switched off the light and left the door ajar, just how I like it. I got into bed and pulled the bedding up to my chin. Downstairs, I could hear Sherlock moving about. I shut my eyes, listening to his lullaby of small thumps and clatters, and eventually drifted off to sleep to the sound of the shower running. 

…

 

“I’ve thought of another adjective for you,” John says over a mouthful of toast. He’s got a pink smear of jam on the corner of his mouth. Endearing (even though I want to wipe it away)(that’s endearing also)(tender feelings inspired by mild frustration; makes no sense, but there it is). “A few more, actually. Warm us up a bit?” He holds out his mug, and I tip a bit more coffee into it, then watch him drip in milk. 

“Perhaps you’d like to borrow a pipettor. That way you can be sure you won’t accidentally add any excess millilitres of milk to your coffee.” 

John grins, “Shut up; I’m being nice.” Mime zipping my lip. “That’s better,” John gives me one of his little military nods. “So. Adjectives.”

“Adjectives.”

“Yeah, I found my thesaurus up there,” John jerks his head toward the staircase up to his bedroom, “this morning, and I had a peruse and a little think. Tell me how you like these,” John swipes open his phone where it lays next to his napkin and fiddles with it a moment, then begins to read aloud, “‘Sensational.’” He pauses and looks at me, “I started out with ‘fantastic’ and ‘sensational was my favourite on the ‘fantastic’ entry, so I went and looked up ‘sensational,’ and that was good. From there, I got ‘outstanding,’ ‘electrifying,’ ‘spectacular,’ and ‘breathtaking.’”

Breathtaking! Wonder if he notices my ears getting hot, “Goodness, I’m not used to being all that before breakfast.” 

“Well, it’s cumulative,” John grins into his mug and sips his coffee. “And ongoing.” 

“You’ve forgotten one. Well omitted anyway,” I say before I can lose my nerve. 

“Oh?” John picks up his phone, still smiling, his finger poised to tap my response into his phone (ostensibly the punchline to a good joke)(pleased isn’t always good; it’s got to be the right sort of pleased)(feelings things are so bloody fiddly). 

“Gay.” 

John just beams at me for a moment, then does indeed tap ‘gay’ onto his list, “I’ll make a note of it.” 

“Good. It er. Wouldn’t do to forget.” 

“I won’t forget,” John is still smiling, but he doesn't look anymore like he's going to laugh, “Thank you for telling me.” 

“Well,” shrug. “You showed me yours.”

John snorts and pockets his phone, then returns to his breakfast, “I was thinking of going round to the house today and get my things.” 

“Good idea. I’ll help. By the way, you’ve got jam on your face. Did you know?” 

John’s tongue wanders around his mouth and worries at the sticky patch for a moment before he answers, “Great, thanks. Knew you’d say that.”


	3. Chapter 3

John lets me drive his little blue car on our journey out to that garden level flat in the suburbs, where he doesn’t live anymore. We load it up with as many of John’s things as it will hold, which is nearly everything. His clothes and books. A trunk. A shoe tree. His lockbox. John crams his RAMC mug into his laptop bag, slings it over his shoulder, and we’re finished. 

There are two removal men waiting outside 221 Baker Street when we return. John looks at me. 

I roll my eyes, “Mycroft’s feeling supportive. Or possibly feeling like bugging our flat.” Our flat. John nods wisely and tells them to bugger off, and we bring up his things ourselves.

“Oh god,” John tosses himself onto the sofa with a little groan when all of his possessions are inside the flat, piled neatly near the stairs up to his bedroom. “I’m never moving again.”

“Good. If I get caught toting boxes about, people will start to imagine I’m altruistic.”

John laughs, “Perish the thought.”

“Are you hungry? Fancy a curry? I’m famished. I could call for delivery.”

John sits up, “You’re an angel. I’m for a bath. Get me something? You know what I like.” 

“All right.”

…

 

“Is this mine?” John sinks onto the sofa next to me, damp about the ears and sweet-smelling. He’s wearing my pyjamas again. 

“Mmyep,” nudge the carton toward him and uncap his beer. 

John tucks in with relish, “Mm! You do know what I like.”

“Well, I am a genius.” 

John bumps his shoulder against mine, “Yes, I’m a lucky man.” 

Duck my head and grin like a fool, “Likewise.” 

“No, really. You spoil me,” John wags his spoon at me. 

Shrug, “It’s just a curry, John. I didn’t even cook it.”

John sets his spoon down and shifts to face me, “I don’t only mean the food. You know that, don’t you?”

Think about that for a moment, “The wedding?”

John smiles at me (aches), “Yeah. That’s some of it, yeah.” He reaches out and strokes my elbow. 

Wet my lips, “You have hugs in your eyes. That’s the face you made before. In the speech. Right before you swooped in.”

John laughs, “It’s on my list. Hug Sherlock.”

Raise my eyebrows, “Really? I can’t believe you’re telling me that, but you won’t show it to me.” 

“I’m really getting through it, actually. I’ve only got a little bit of it left.”

“Well then you must add more; I like you selfish.” John’s hand is still on my elbow. Trying not to look at it, but it’s making me lightheaded (only because it means he may hug me again)(!). 

John squeezes my elbow gently, “Honest, I think is a better word.”

“Honest. Yes. I like you honest,”

“Sherlock,” John licks his lips and slides his hand down my arm to lace our fingers together, “Sherlock. I want to tell you something. All right?””

Nod, “Yes, of course.”

John squeezes my hand and gazes at me silently for a long, long moment, “I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you going on.” John pauses and shakes his head as if laughing at himself, “Six years now. God. I should have told you.” His shoulders sag a bit, “I was. I was afraid I’d lose you. I was afraid you didn’t. Maybe if I’d been more. Well.” John pauses, presses my hand. His eyes are bright, and when he speaks again his voice is thick, “I’ve been so stupid. I’m not worried anymore that you don’t love me. You’ve been. What else could this be? I’ve eliminated the impossible. I think. We’re in love. Aren’t we? What are we waiting for? Let’s just. I love you. Please, I don’t want to waste any more time. I love you.” 

Squeeze John’s hand very tightly throughout his speech. I’m almost faint with relief and elation, and when he finishes, I lean in to kiss him and our teeth knock, but we laugh, and John raises a soft hand to cup my jaw steady and kisses me and oh his mouth is so warm and pliant already, as if he’s been kissing me for hours, for years. 

Lean back against the sofa, still keeping hold of John, and he settles down, half on top of me and kisses along my jaw, my throat, along my collar. Shiver and slide a hand up the back of John’s loose t shirt. John kisses my adam’s apple and works open my first shirt button to kiss me where my shirt parts. Gasp softly at the prick of his stubble, then John and I sigh in unison. 

Begin to pull John’s shirt off over his head, “All right?”

“Yeah,” John ducks his head to assist me, and I pull the shirt off and drop it onto the floor. John’s skin is so soft and sweet from his bath (what must I taste of? Old sweat and desperation)(god, I want him!). Mouth inelegantly at John’s neck, his collarbone, leaving little trails of moisture. 

John goes boneless on top of me and buries his face against my shoulder, “Mmmnyeah I want to see you too, okay?”

“You want....?” can scarcely think (sex is making me stupid, as expected)(so far proving worth it). 

“Can I undress you?” John fondles my second shirt button and smooths a hand over my chest.

Shut my eyes. Swallow. “Let’s lie down on the bed.”

John shifts off me at once, stands up, and offers me his hand (try not to stare at his erection, bobbing visibly under his pyjama bottoms). I let him pull me up and follow him into my bedroom. John backs into the bedroom as I enter it behind him, and sits down on my bed. 

Sit next to him, “I should probably tell you I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

John strokes my leg, “It isn’t really the sort of thing you know in advance. You solve it. Try a few things and see what works.”

Slump against him, “I think everything you do will work on me, John.” 

John laughs, raspy and sweet, “Let’s find out, shall we?” 

“Yes, please.” John clasps my neck and slides his hand up slowly to stroke my hair. He traces the rim of my ear delicately and shines his smile into my face until I shut my eyes. He leans in slowly (feel him, though I can’t see him) and kisses me. With his other hand, John strokes my chest and the heat and softness of his fingers are bliss, even through my clothes. Want more. 

“You were undressing me?” 

John licks his lips, “Do you want me to to undress you, Sherlock?” He plucks at a button on my shirt (makes me shiver). “You want me to see you naked?”

Shiver again (something so arresting in his voice, despite its tenderness), “Please yes absolutely yes.” 

John eases me back against the headboard and kisses my neck as he deftly flicks open my shirt buttons, one by one. He slips the shirt off my shoulders and draws back briefly to shed his pyjama bottoms. This time, I don’t try and stop myself from staring at his cock (could I stop?)(seems to have its own orbit into which I am irresistibly pulled)(certainly big enough). John traces my gaze with a knowing smirk. 

He unzips my trousers and pats my thigh, “Hips up, please.” 

I obey, and John tugs away my trousers and my pants, and we’re naked together. 

I want to soak him into me. I want to disappear into him. I want his skin against mine. I want us mingled. I want John. I tuck my face into the crook between John’s neck and shoulder, and he strokes my hip and nuzzles my hair. Sag against him, basking in the pleasure of his patient hands on me. Want to touch more of him. Can’t seem to think and make a plan. 

Wrap an arm about John’s waist and hold him closer to me, and he sighs with satisfaction (can feel the little gust in my hair). I kiss his neck, and under my lips, John’s pulse speeds. Thrilling. Here must be what he meant by solving. Kiss down John’s throat to his collarbone, then suck at it lightly and graze it with my teeth. John moans (can feel his voice in his skin and my skin) (delicious!). John squeezes my hip. Press slack, moist kisses down his chest and his belly. Look up at John when his cock bobs against my chin. He is already looking at me (takes a moment to find words under those eager, dark blue eyes).

“Can I touch your cock?”

John wets his lips and nods, “Please.”

Take him in my hand and try not to laugh when he jolts at my touch. John’s cock is lovely. Stout and rosy and very slightly curved, with a drop of moisture shining at the very tip. Rather makes my mouth water. Kiss the head, then lick at the tip where it shines. John jumps and groans. 

Let go of him at once and look up anxiously, “Too much?”

John shakes his head (he’s blushing)(!), “No,” his voice is rough (delicious). “That was a good noise. Do that again?” He makes a little hiss of pleasure when I do, and the triumphant feelings in my middle are curling into something much more impatient, so I turn onto my belly for a better angle and take the head of John’s cock into my mouth. John drops his head against the headboard with a heavy thump and groans again, louder than before. He strokes my shoulder, encouragingly, then reaches down and tightens my hand around him, guiding it slowly up and down. Takes a bit to get my head and my hand moving in rhythm, but by the time I do, John’s thighs are flexing and trembling and his breathing is shallow. 

Draw nearly completely off to suck hard at the tip, and John rocks, squirms, shudders, “Oh god, Sherlock I’m-” the end of his sentence is lost in a groan as he comes. Pull off to watch his face (shiver a little when John’s come splashes over my hand and against my chin)(giddy with triumph and a sort of sympathetic ecstasy). John wilts for just a moment, then reaches for my hand and tugs me up to him. He wipes my chin gently, “You’re incredible. Do you know?” 

Smile foolishly, “Thank you.” John kisses me (my mouth is swollen)(wonder if the kissing feels different to him than it did before). He strokes my hair and gathers me closer in both arms (heaven). I curl up to him and lean along his chest. 

John strokes along from my hip to my thigh and begins to massage little circles on my thigh, near the seam between my hip and my groin, “I love touching you.” I may melt into him. Liquefy and disappear into John. I wouldn’t mind. John noses my ear and nips at my earlobe. Moan, and he he laughs low (can feel it in my chest) and strokes my thigh more firmly, “I’d like to touch your cock now. I’d really really like to see you have an orgasm. Would you like that, Sherlock?” Nod vigorously. John trails a line of biting, sucking kisses down my neck and takes hold of my cock. Sigh. Shiver. 

John hums against my throat and trails his fingers delicately over my cock. Squirm, first forward to bump his hand, then back into him. “All right,” can feel the amusement in John’s kiss against my neck. “I’m getting on with it, bossy.” He squeezes my cock gently and begins to stroke me, without waiting for me to answer (grateful not to have to think of one). Smile into John’s chest. His heart thuds away under me (the tiniest things are so exquisite with John). John sucks my jaw and squeezes me, and I tremble. “Oooh, lovely! You are gorgeous, you know,” John kisses my neck, “You’re quite sensitive, aren’t you? Would you rather I use my mouth? I was going to, but then I didn’t want to move you.”

Shake my head, “I want to hold you, John.” 

John’s sweet face glows, and I bask (my whole being is sparkling in his light). He kisses me and squeezes me tighter, “Hold me, gorgeous.” John’s hand on my cock speeds, and I rock up into it when he squeezes on the downstroke. Shut my eyes and muffle my face against his chest (can’t stop myself making small, sweet, undignified sounds every time he squeezes me). John rolls my foreskin between his fingertips, then swipes his thumb sharply over the head of my cock, and I come with a little shout. 

John hugs me through two aftershocks. I cling to him and listen to his heartbeat. Wait for my breathing to slow. He pets my hair (with his clean hand). I doubt anything has ever been this peaceful. After a bit, John reaches for the box of tissues on my night table, and mops us both up. When we’re relatively unsticky (still quite sticky)(don't care)(virtually unthinkable in any other context), John sinks back into the pillows with a hum of pleasure. Push up onto my elbow to kiss him. He looks on the verge of drifting off. I shall sleep as well, if he does (sounds actually very pleasant to lie beside him and hold onto him while I sleep)(pleasant to sleep!). 

“Well, John.” Kiss John’s nose. “I solved it.” 

John grins and shuts his eyes, “I know you would, Sherlock. I always knew you would.”

…

 

“John,” Sherlock nuzzled ticklishly between my neck and shoulder. “Wake up.”

“I’m awake,” I answered. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Oh John, don’t talk like an old person.”

I snorted, “I am an old person. Deal with it.”

“John,” Sherlock prodded me in the ribs. 

“Yes, I can hear you even with my eyes shut; that tickles! What is it?”

Sherlock hummed and answered rather shyly, “Mm ah, do I still get to be your best friend?”

I opened my eyes and half sat up, “Of course you do! You’ll always be my best friend, okay?”

“Good,” Sherlock laid his head on my chest and shut his eyes, “Likewise. Comfortable?”

“Mmyeah, that’s fine.” I kissed his hair, “I’d like to call you something else, though. Maybe something a bit more specific.” 

Sherlock pulled one of my arms round his waist, “Not partner. We were already partners before, and now we have a new thing.” 

“Nah, something that when people hear it, they think, ‘Oh, they’re shagging now. Good for them.’”

Sherlock sort of giggled through his nose and nudged me, “God, John.”

I nudged back, “Being with you is probably my finest accomplishment, and I want everyone to know. Maybe I’ll have a plate made up for the door.” I held out a hand to mark the words in the air, “You in profile and then underneath, ‘World’s most beautiful genius loves and loved by John H Watson.’ That about right?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock petted my chest. “Both of us in profile with just ‘In love’ underneath.” 

“Pithy.” I grinned at him and bounced an eyebrow, “Sentimental.” 

Sherlock huffed, “It can’t be both, John. Make up your mind.”

“Actually you’re magnificent enough to be both pithy and sentimental. That wasn’t even the first time.” I leaned toward Sherlock to invite a kiss, and he very graciously granted me one.

“Is magnificent another of your thesaurus adjectives, John?”

I yawned, “That was improvised, actually. I do know some words.” 

"Mmm," Sherlock conceded. "A few. Go on and go to sleep, then John. I can see there’s no keeping you.” 

I shut my eyes, “I’m awake; I’m listening. You’re impressed with my vocabulary. I’m going to call you a whole load of nice things tomorrow. Saving it up. Got to spread it out; it doesn’t do to overwoo.” 

“Good night, John. I love you. I meant to say before. Got distracted with kissing. Sorry.”

“I love you, too.” I smiled, “It’s all right, Sherlock. I did know.” I yawned again into Sherlock’s hair, “I’m going to sleep now, all right?”

“I'll come along,” Sherlock kissed my chest, and we hugged each other a little tighter. And it seems like maybe it ought to have taken more than that. But it didn’t.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] That Sudden Flood of Joy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449011) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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